The Barefoot And Baffled Blog

Two shapes are standing in the dark on the edge of the beach, looking out over the bay. The sky and the sea are black and inscrutinable. Overhead the cloud cover of the wet season is hiding the stars and the last remaining sliver of the crescent moon. When it does make a brief appearance it hangs in the far eastern sky like a smily face. It is incongruent in the current circumstances. The two shapes are having a spirited but subdued discussion, taking care to maintain a distance of 1.5 metres between them. ‘Between Italy and Spain more than a thousand people died last night,’offers the Baboon, looking grim. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ agrees the Snake Catcher, ‘and we all still insist on pretending life will go on as normal.’ They nod in unison in quiet commiseration. Behind them the carpark is silent and abandoned. Many of the usual crew have opted out, though it’s not clear whether it’s because of the increasing stranglehold that the pandemic is exerting on their daily lives

I went shopping today, in the early morning as is my habit. I hate shops, shopping and crowds, so I like to get in there as early as possible, get it all over and done with quick smart, and get out as fast as I can. That’s the ritual, once a week on the Saturday morning. In a considerable break with tradition, there were eight people lining up already, waiting in front of the closed roller doors. I was number nine. While I sat down and waited for five minutes or so another seven people turned up, one of them wearing a virus-proof face-mask. Normally there might be one or two people in the first fifteen minutes of the shop’s opening. To see such a group gathered is highly unusual. People are scared out of their wits by the Corona virus pandemic. And it’s understandable. Overnight in Italy, epicentre of the pandemic, 627 people have died. Yesterday their thirteenth doctor died of the disease. The army has been called in to keep order in the streets and keep people indoors, and

Much to our distress St Patrick’s Day was cancelled this year. By ourselves, out of precaution and sensible adherence to social isolation principles. It’s a great shame, and we are devastated. When St Patrick’s Day and its celebration gets mentioned sometimes, people often remark how stupid and out of character it is for us to go and celebrate something that is a symbol of christianity, of the extinction of native culture and of its replacement with a foul Middle Eastern death-cult that vilifies and devalues life on this beautiful earth while peddling pie in the sky, worldy power abuse and pedophilia. And well may they ask. These are good points and fair questions. St Patrick didn’t first bring chrisitianity to Ireland, it was already there, in small amounts, brought over, presumably, by random people from christian Roman Britain coming over for trade or whatever. A bloke called Palladius is sometimes associated with providing some sort of promotion of the religion in Ireland

‘Nah’, said Chief Switchfoot,’it’s gonna be dead high tide and northerly. It’ll be shit. I’m gonna sleep in.’ And he slept in. ‘Can’t make it’, said The Snake Catcher,’I’ve got an early start.’ And he started early. The night was black and dark. This is not unusual. There were two shadowy figures in the carpark, talking in hushed, depressed tones. The Baboon recognised them by the distinctive glimmer and shine of their respective eyes and teeth. ‘Morning fellas!’, he chirped cheerfully as he bounced towards them, knuckles dragging over the ground, ‘how are yous?’ ‘Shit’, grumbled The Uncle, who is not given to unnecessary positivity, ‘there’s no waves.’ ‘I am very well, thank you’, replied The Space Shuttle, whose outlook of life is of an altogether more brighter stripe, ‘how are you?’ “I’m good, thanks’, The Baboon replied, ‘what’s it look like?’ ‘It’s dead flat’, offered The Uncle morosely, ’it’s like a lake.’ ‘Yes, there’s not a ripple’, agreed Th

We congregated in the night at the edge of the water. We stared into the inscrutinable darkness of the sea in front of us. We found it, not surprisingly, inscrutinable. Deciding we had nothing to lose and that it was better to try and to fail than not to try at all, we waxed up, stuck our boards under our arms, and climbed down the track to the beach below us. Striking out towards the Far East, the end of the bay, there where the easy waters of the bay become a lot less cosy and comfortable, we picked our way through the rocks and boulders haphazardly strewn across the sand, carefully placing feet and cunningly timing on-rushing waves to be able to cross areas where the sand was thin over the rocks without mangling our feet. The stars above us cast a weak, cold light upon our heads, ghostly white in the pre-dawn dusk. All around was quiet. If it hadn’t been for the quiet sloshing around, the rushing in and rushing out of the sea to our side, we could have been in a remote, dried